Side by Side
by mellyb6
Summary: When they have to stay the night at Belgard's estate, Porthos and Aramis have a talk about Porthos finding his father, and about Aramis's strange behaviour. - Missing scene from Season 2 Episode 8 The Prodigal Father.


Chapter Notes: The story starts right after Porthos fought against Levesque at dinner. I have always found the timing in this episode strange. If you look closely, it seems that "dinner" at Belgard's takes place at night and yet the next scene (in Rochefort's office) is in plain daylight with sunshine. Not knowing the exact chronology, I chose the option that allowed Porthos and Aramis to have some time alone.

* * *

Porthos can feel the rage seethe in his veins as he tries to contain it inside. He's made his point, he's showed Levesque just how powerful and mighty he could be. Belgard's acknowledgment of his parentage calms him down a little. It makes him feel like he could belong in this house.

He almost doesn't realize Belgard has come closer and hugs him. His arms move on their accord and return the embrace.

"I will not stand around and witness such outrage!" Eleanor's voice is ice cold. Porthos grits his teeth. He's used to people insulting him. He wishes he could show her what he's capable of as well. The thought unsettles him.

Clothes ruffle as she leaves the dining room. Her husband hovers behind, gathers his own clothing. There's such hatred in his eyes, but one look at Aramis let him know that he should not chance it. The Musketeer knows his friend, knows his strength and his moves. He can read Porthos perfectly after so many years, and it was clear from their short fight that Porthos would have badly hurt Levesque if he could have done so.

Once husband and wife are gone, Belgard offers them both some wine. He looks delighted and proud with the outcome. Porthos downs his cup. He surveys the large dining room, the many candles and the fire lighting it up in the darkness.

It was an easy confrontation, one he was aware he would win, but victory doesn't entirely soften the insults and the way he's been treated.

"Excuse me," he decides, striding out of the room, heading outside.

Left alone with Belgard, Aramis empties his own cup of wine, with no intention of staying any longer with the older man. His host has other intentions, though. He sits down at the head of the table, invites his guest to do the same.

"That was some entertainment, was it not? A welcome change from my dull routine."

"Porthos would have preferred not having to do it. Not in your house," Aramis retorts curtly. Somebody has yet to apologize for the blows to Porthos's honour, to his dignity. He's still clutching his friend's bandana in his hand. He secures it between his belt and his uniform, in a fashion similar to how Porthos does it.

"How long have you known Porthos?"

"Five, almost six years. Ever since he joined the regiment."

Aramis feels like he shouldn't be the one answering questions, that he shouldn't be the one talking with Belgard. Porthos should be the one having some time to discuss with his father. After so long, so many years thinking that he would never find him, would never get to be acquainted, that his father might actually be dead altogether, Porthos deserves all the time he can spend with Belgard.

But he isn't here right now, all because of his brother-in-law and Aramis decides that it falls to him to present the great man that Porthos is.

"The Musketeers."

"Yes. One of the best we've ever had. You'll never find a man more tenacious or braver than Porthos. The Captain did good by recruiting him."

The mention of Tréville seems to spark some renewed interest in Belgard.

"Captain Tréville, am I right?"

"Yes." Aramis narrows his eyes when he notices the look of disdain on the other's face, disgust and resentment. Belgard doesn't need to know that Tréville isn't Captain anymore. Not when everyone at the Garrison still refers to him as such.

"Where did he find Porthos? _How_ did he find him?"

"The infantry but...Porthos will gladly tell you all about it, I'm certain."

The questions don't make him uncomfortable, he is far too at ease in the world for this. It's the way Belgard scrutinizes him, studies him, tries to find a breach, tries to find something he can hold against him. Against Tréville. Aramis doesn't know what to make of it. He doesn't understand why the Captain would keep such a secret for so long if he was aware Porthos's father has been alive all along. That's what makes him uncomfortable.

Aramis stands up then, ready to leave.

"Thank you for your hospitality but I should go saddle up the horses. It's a long ride to Paris."

"I have so much to discuss with my son yet. You'll stay the night. I may live like a recluse, there are many rooms in this house to host guests."

Aramis can hardly refuse. Not when Belgard refers to Porthos as "his son." He doesn't imagine his friend refusing such an opportunity to spend more time with his father either.

There is something strange about Belgard, something strange about his family and the place where they all live. There is something not quite right about their interactions. But then again, they are a family; families have conflicts. They are Porthos' family, and it's enough of an argument for Aramis not to decline the invitation.

Porthos may not have been searching for his blood family, he was certainly yearning for it, even though he would not voice the desire. So Aramis will let him have what he has been craving for for so long.

* * *

The bedroom where an old servant led Aramis is stuffy, dusty, the linens on the bed smell moudly. So do the curtains. The man lit a couple of candles and built a hasty fire before leaving the Musketeer to himself.

Still no sign of Porthos, and Aramis isn't even certain he will see him this evening. He must have better things to do. Aramis is used to staying by himself with his thoughts by now. It's been the same for months. It bothers him, always has, always will, for as long as he is allowed to survive and until his treason is discovered. He doesn't deserve any company. He isn't worthy of any.

The room is cold in spite of everything, and Aramis shivers as he undresses. He's only taken off his long coat and his boots when a side door opens and Porthos emerges through it.

"Good, you're still awake."

Aramis stops, his braces falling to his sides.

"Belgard told me we could spend the night."

"It's very generous of him."

"He said we have much to talk about in the morning."

Aramis nods, studies his friend's face. Porthos looks more relaxed than a couple of hours earlier. He's still frowning as he takes in his surroundings, the room allocated to Aramis much similar to his own.

He's still standing by the door, unsure whether he would be welcome to step forward, to invade Aramis's privacy. His friend has been withdrawing from him lately, but tonight, he hopes they can overlook it.

"Wine?" he offers, motioning to the two cups and the bottle he's holding. Aramis cannot help but smile.

"Please."

He sits back down on his bed and observes Porthos as he sets his offering on a table before taking off his uniform as well.

They stay silent until Porthos is seated by his side, the bed sinking a little under the weight.

"That's yours," Aramis eventually says after they've drunk a couple of cups. Porthos looks down at the bandana, takes it. He stares at it, at his empty cup and frowns for so long, all the while shaking his head.

"How can he tolerate them?" he asks after a while, his fingers grasping the piece of fabric, clenching and unclenching. Some fresh air and a long walk on the grounds haven't managed to overcome his anger. They have certainly dampened it, but he is still appaled at Belgard's daughter rudeness, her husband's provocation and bad manners.

Aramis isn't sure the question is directed at him. Not until Porthos slightly turns his head to glance at him. The dark shadow and the angry eyes Aramis meets make him find an answer.

"They're family?"

"Having no family would be better than _them_ , then."

Porthos sounds really upset. Aramis is the one who refills their cups this time. When he sits down again, he's closer to his friend than before. Their shoulders bump.

"Your father is alive, Porthos." He raises his head at this, stops focusing on his drink. Aramis looks hopeful, a small smile on his lips. It's been a long time since Porthos has seen such a sight.

Then, there's a hand on his shoulder, pressing, gentle and comforting. Porthos takes a deep breath, agrees.

Bad manners and rudeness aside, Porthos has found the person he thought was dead, the person he thought had abandoned him, the person he believed didn't want him in his life. It appears that he was wrong. He doesn't understand what happened between Belgard and Captain Tréville, but there'll be time in the morning to discuss it.

"I spent my whole life thinking that I was a bastard. It turns out I'm not."

His dry chuckle startles Aramis. It came as a surprise when Belgard had announced at dinner that he did marry Porthos's mother all these years ago. Porthos had not reacted to it at first, but Aramis was aware of how much it changed for his friend.

It would not make him more honorable, there is no more honourable man than Porthos, his life being ruled by duty and the desire to make the world a better place to live in. It would probably not change how people would treat him. Bastard or not, he is still the son of a black servant.

Porthos's presence and self-confidence are enough for people to respect him, even though they might despise him behind his back. His newly-discovered parentage might change this and Aramis hopes it will lead to the aristocracy and the upper classes recognizing Porthos for the man he really is, the man Aramis admires and seeks to impress every day.

"Perhaps he can tell me more about my mother. How she was before..." Porthos trails on, swallows thickly. Aramis's hand presses more on his shoulder, rubs his skin through the fabric of his shirt. It's soothing, it's warm. Porthos rubs his eyes.

"It's cold in here. But not as much as in mine. Fire's gone out," he explains, gestures at the closed door leading from one bedroom to the other.

"It's a great place, though, coldness aside. It could use some renovation and it's definitely too dark for my liking but it could be improved."

"Yeah."

Porthos scans the room, wonders if his mother ever set foot in it, if she touched things, moved furniture around, dusted the mantelpiece, cleaned the mirrors, mended the curtains. Everywhere he looks, he senses her ghost, the memory of her presence.

He wishes she was still alive, that she could be here to witness him being reunited with his father. At least he's found him. After so long.

Porthos pockets his bandana, stands up to pour some wine only to realize that the bottle is now empty. He groans.

Aramis looks up at the sound. He cannot compose his face, the same one he's had ever since they stopped talking. He seems sad, concerned; it's the same look he's had for months. It unsettles Porthos. This isn't the Aramis he knows and likes and he wants with all his heart to make matters better. If only he was allowed to do so.

"No more wine," Porthos explains. Aramis sighs, rubs his temples, closes his eyes.

"Thank you for asking me to come with you."

"You're the only one I would have asked."

The tone is softer this time, it makes Aramis open his eyes to find Porthos studying him. He appears more relaxed, although there is a hint of anger and annoyance in his frown.

"You're the only one I trust when it comes to my family, Aramis."

Aramis smiles at the confession, proud of the idea, proud to be so important for Porthos. Ashamed to shut him out, ashamed to keep so many terrible secrets from him.

"I haven't been the best of friends lately," he confesses, running a hand through his hair. He is sheepish when he has to look up because Porthos has stepped so close in front of him.

He's towering above him. Not frightening, not terrifying, merely impressive. A situation Aramis used to crave, still does, but doesn't think himself worthy of.

Porthos stares down at him, hardly blinking, studying his face as if he didn't already know it by heart. He's looking for something, for a clue of what might be troubling the other, of something he could help with.

It's been a long time since they have been alone just the two of them. It's been months. It's not his own doing. He doesn't know what has changed for Aramis, he wants to understand.

Aramis returns the stare, troubled and conflicted. Porthos feels about the same tonight. His entire world has rocked in a few hours. No matter how annoying it can be that Aramis will not talk to him, he's the only support he demands and requires for the time being.

Porthos grabs Aramis's hand, forces him to stop pulling at the wild curls. For a second, he believes Aramis will withdraw. He doesn't. He looks down at his hand, Porthos's fist around it. Pressing. Never hurting.

Then he sits down again, frees Aramis and all the while looking him in the eye, Porthos puts his own hand on his friend's thigh. A normal gesture for them, one they're used to, one that would go unnoticed when they were by themselves. One Porthos hasn't done in months.

"You're hiding things. There are things you're not saying."

It's not a question. Porthos states facts. Aramis cannot argue.

His attitude has changed too drastically, too suddenly and Porthos knows him too well to ignore it. The worry in his eyes, the constant frown, the outside expressions of all the worries he keeps inside. He's aware Porthos sees everything.

Ever since the convent and the Queen, damn fool that he is; ever since the King announced she was with child, ever since he fist saw the Dauphin, he's doomed himself more and more every day.

There's been less laughter, less time spent with his friends. He doesn't have the desire or energy to do so. It breaks his heart. It shatters him to be so withdrawn, to feel like he isn't trying to keep Porthos, that he is doing everything to end their friendship.

But they are so much more, and Aramis doesn't know how to make things right without putting him in jeopardy.

"It has nothing to do with us, though." Once again, it's not a question. Porthos is confident, sure of it.

"No. Never."

Aramis breathes loudly. Porthos's hand clutches his thigh, his thumb rubs small circles there that his friend can feel even through leather.

This Aramis, anxious, nervous, on edge, it reminds Porthos of how he used to be after Savoy. It took months then from Aramis to recover from the terrible massacre and its aftermath.

The only difference now is that he has no idea what could have triggered the change. It started long before they learned that the Cardinal had his mistress killed.

"I've offered you to talk about it, several times," he reminds him. Aramis nods. How much he desires to talk about it, to voice what troubles him, to involve Porthos only to have him scold him, yell at him, tell him that he is a fool. He wants Porthos to know, he wants Porthos to know his secrets, and yet, it is a selfish desire. One he cannot fulfill.

"I'm not going to press it, but the offer is still standing, whenever you want."

There's another nod at this, before Aramis sighs and actually grabs the hand on his thigh. He holds on to it, realizes how much he's missed physical contact with Porthos. He breathes out, sighs, smiles but it's forced.

"Tonight shouldn't be about me. You've just found your family, Porthos."

"And more questions."

About Tréville, his involvement in his early life. About Porthos's possible new status, the new life he could claim.

"That Belgard will gladly answer in the morning."

"Hopefully."

And then there's nothing left to say. Reluctantly, Porthos takes his hand away, stands up. Aramis misses the contact at once. So does Porthos.

"I should go back to my room." He doesn't sound convinced. He's only waiting for Aramis to tell him so. Nothing comes though. Aramis stays silent, leads a silent battle to force his mind not to ask Porthos to stay with him. He doesn't deserve it.

He only raises his head after Porthos's presence close to him is gone, after he gathers his uniform, after he closes the door behind him, and after Aramis is absolutely sure he is alone.

He cannot ask him to stay, he's not worthy.

He doesn't deserve to follow either.

Instead, he blows out the closest candle, sheds his trousers, crawls into bed. Crucifix in hand, tears in his eyes. They burn his hand and his face in the same fashion. Ashamed.

* * *

It's some hours later, when praying has lulled him to sleep, that Aramis hears the loud sound of a door opening. He's too drowsy to completely process what it means, not until the bed sinks underneath him. When he turns around, opens his eyes, he doesn't have to grow accustomed to the darkness to know that Porthos is sprawled next to him.

"The room's too big and empty. I'm not used to such gigantic chambers." Porthos thinks he could fit at least five times his regular room at the Garrison into the one Belgard granted him. "Besides, it's too cold in my bed."

Porthos hasn't slept since he left Aramis. He has too much on his mind. He isn't satisfied with the half-explanation given by Belgard, he has too many questions unanswered. Eleanor and her husband bother him, too. He can handle himself, always has and always will, but he isn't certain he can handle these insults coming from his family. He wants to see them as such. He wants it will all his heart. He doesn't see how it can be possible.

Aramis yawns and rubs at his eyes. He mustn't have slept for long. He's been having trouble finding sleep for months. He raises an eyebrow, curious and amused by Porthos's explanation, secretly thrilled that he's come back.

He doesn't deserve Porthos's kindness and his never-ending attachement, his will to remain by his side, even when Aramis is being less than friendly.

Their conversation from earlier isn't finished, Porthos believes it hasn't even started it. It's another one of the reasons why he is wide awake in the middle of the night.

"It's warmer under the blankets," Aramis decides. His voice is husky from sleep yet warm and Porthos doesn't hesitate to crawl right next to him.

It was a lie; it's as cold in his bed than it was in Porthos's. And as silent. He can only hear Aramis's heavy breathing. He's trying to steady it. He can feel the heat radiating from Porthos's body, something he loves and craves. He's missed it so much. He's missing it every single night he has to stay away.

Aramis closes his eyes once more, wills his mind to forget that Porthos is lying only inches away. He balls his fists at his sides, stops himself short from reaching for fingers, arms, shirt.

"My father's a Marquis," Porthos eventually says, his voice deep in the silence. A beacon in the darkness. It's quiet and comforting. There's only surprise in the words.

Aramis finally turns on his side, seaches for the other's face and finds him looking up at the ceiling, his head cushioned on his hands.

"You may be one as well one day," Aramis ventures, finding it hard to believe. Porthos scoffs at the suggestion. He cannot imagine it. He never imagined his life being anything other than the one of a soldier. Could he fit in the aristocracy? Would they let him?

It sounds so ludicrous, so foreign to his existence. How will he react if his entire world, his entire existence has to be rewritten?

Porthos turns his head to look at Aramis, their faces so close on the pillows. It's been a long time since they've found themselves in this situation. He itches to touch him again, he relishes in the small grin tugging at Aramis's lips after his joke.

It's a small change, a welcome one. It probably won't last for long. Porthos is growing used to Aramis's smiles being less genuine, to his laughter being more forced, less effortless than it used to be. It reminds him of the months after Savoy when he had had to pick up the pieces of his broken comrade. When he had to lead Aramis to feel alive again.

They fall back into silence. It is everything but awkward. Aramis closes his eyes, doesn't brush the curls which fall on his face, concentrates on Porthos's breathing blowing softly on his cheeks, so close, so tempting and yet so forbidden. It's comforting nevertheless and his body relaxes.

Porthos cannot close his eyes, cannot think of going to sleep. He watches Aramis's features soften and relax, his frown disappearing after a few minutes.

He would like to shake him, to make him talk, to force an explanation. He would like to understand and finally, _finally_ , find his best friend again. He would like everything to be normal again. Perhaps it can never be the same again. He's clueless as to why. He hates it.

But Aramis is right here, he came with him today. He helped him face the most important and dreaded meeting of his life. He's supporting despite his own troubles, whatever they are.

Porthos shifts impossibly closer. It's warmer now in the bed. Aramis is aware he should back away, he shouldn't allow himself to feel so happy at their proximity. He doesn't deserve it. Porthos is too kind, too loving, too selfless to be able to focus on Aramis when he's been having a rough evening.

Aramis's heart clenches at the thought. He's ashamed but cannot help himself. He settles in the ease and the familiarity of the situation. When he stretches, his cold feet touch Porthos's and instead of withdrawing, he keeps them there. He only shivers.

Porthos doesn't even think twice about his next action. He drags Aramis flush against him, holds him in his arms, hot and soft and strong.

Aramis might have thought about struggling. A few hours earlier he might have pushed Porthos away. It might be exhaustion or simply the remembrance of many other nights, but for now, he is done fighting it.

It's selfish because he doesn't deserve affection or kindness. Porthos would most likely hate him if he knew what he'd done with the Queen. For the time being, Aramis wants to enjoy warmth and care, and give some back.

He's seen Porthos struggle with Tréville for the past weeks, trying to find out what happened with De Foix, what were the secrets he wasn't being told. Aramis only stayed away, didn't attempt to get involved. He didn't think he had the right to help Porthos when he was doing everything to keep him safe and incidentally pushing him away.

He's missed it. He's missed him.

Porthos can feel Aramis's body go lax in his arms and as if on its own accord, Aramis hooks his left leg with Porthos's, assumes his favourite position to fall asleep.

Porthos smiles in the wild curls brushing his chin.

"I'm sorry," Aramis mumbles against Porthos' chest, his fingers clutching his shirt, hanging on for dear life. "I'm sorry."

"I won't take your apology until I know exactly what you're apologizing for."

Porthos is neither foolish nor hopeful enough to expect Aramis to unveil everything so easily simply because they're so close again. For all he knows, his friend will be distant again in the morning.

No explanation comes. Aramis shudders, sighs when Portho's embrace tightens and he softens the blow of his words by a kiss in his hair.

"You deserve everything, Porthos," Aramis replies, can't find the inner strength to confess.

"You do, too. I've got you."

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, Porthos is still holding on to Aramis. They haven't moved at all during the few hours they've slept. It fills him with calm and happiness even though a frown has reappared on Aramis's brow.

He marvels and worries at how much Aramis must have on his mind, how tired he must be when he doesn't even stir when Porthos leaves the bed.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, Aramis needs a few seconds to realize where he is. It's the most resting sleep he's had in months. Even though Porthos is long gone.


End file.
